Dear Diary,

  There’s nothing quite like starting your day with an angry wizard storming into your shop, waving a spellbook around like it’s personally offended him.

  “This thing you sold me is a disaster!” he bellowed, slamming the green leather tome onto the counter. His singed robes and wild expression smelled of the worst thing that could happen to a pawnbroker—a demand for a refund.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, already bracing for something ridiculous.

  He flipped the book open and jabbed a trembling finger at one of the runes. “I tried to cast fireball and instead got... this!"

  Before I could stop him, he made an incantation. I instinctively closed my eyes (fireballs are no joke!) but instead of feeling the heat of an explosion, I heard a faint poof, followed by an awkward silence.

  When I opened my eyes, there it was: a small, pitiful ball of matted fur sitting on the counter. It wobbled slightly before rolling onto the floor like something a cat might proudly cough up after a long nap.

  The wizard pointed at it, his voice shaking with frustration. “Does that look like a fireball to you?!”

  I had to admit, it didn’t. It looked more like a furball.

  I raised an eyebrow, struggling to contain my amusement. “Anything else?”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Oh, there’s more,” the wizard snapped, furiously flipping pages. “This spell? Supposed to summon lightning bolt. Instead, it summons a lightening bolt. Makes everything ten pounds lighter! My damn apprentice floated out a window!”

  The list of dyslexic spells went on: a Magic Missile spell that cast a magic thistle instead, a Dispel Magic that made you misspell words, a Stone Skin that made you look like a scone, and an Ice Storm that left my floor covered in rice.

  (I can't believe I'm saying this, but thank gods for my enchanted broom!)

  Of course, the man demanded a refund. I sighed and leaned on the counter. “Sorry,” I said flatly. “No refunds. Store policy.” I had my associate, Korgath, point at the sign above me that said, NO REFUNDS.

  The wizard’s face turned red, then purple. “No refunds?! You sold me a defective spellbook!”

  “Not defective,” I said, with my best shopkeeper’s shrug. “Creative.”

  “Creative?” he spat. “I’ll show you creative!”

  Before I could even blink, he whipped out his wand, pointed it at me, and shouted an incantation. I recognized the spell immediately: Air Blast, designed to hurl a razor-sharp rush of wind at the opponent.

  As soon as the words left his lips, I knew something had gone wrong.

  The wizard made an angry gesture, but instead of a powerful gust of wind, I felt an odd tingling on my scalp. Confused, I reached up to scratch my head, only to find… hair. A lot of hair.

  The wizard stared at me in wide-eyed disbelief. I grabbed a shard of a broken mirror from the counter and held it up.

  My reflection greeted me with the most glorious mullet I’d ever seen: thick, flowing locks cascading down my back, paired with a perfectly trimmed front. I looked like the frontman of a bardic rock band.

  The wizard, still frozen in place, finally managed, “That was supposed to knock you over.”

  “Well,” I said, running a hand through my magnificent mane, “I'm sure I'll be able to knock some girls over.”

  The man stormed out, nearly tripping over the broom on the way, before I could even offer him a 10% discount on his next purchase. What a shame that the wizard took the dyslexic spellbook with him. I think I could've made a lot of gold with that alone.

  Yours in profit,

  Garren